


Times of Change

by calenlily



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: F/M, Mating Flight (Dragonriders of Pern), Misses Clause Challenge, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21934036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenlily/pseuds/calenlily
Summary: The first days after the beginning of the 9th Pass and Lessa's return with the Oldtime Weyrs bring an onslaught of new demands and responsibilities on Benden Weyr and Benden's Weyrleaders.And that's only the beginning....
Relationships: F'lar | Fallarnon/Lessa
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Part I: Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tielan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/gifts).



She clings to him for support as the dragons fall entwined, for the rising tide of Ramoth’s need is still strong enough to send her reeling. But this time it’s a familiar kind of overwhelming: intense, but not disorienting, and in no way opposed to the desires of her conscious self. The feel of the solid male body against her is at once steadying and exciting.

Nothing in her is conflicted or held back; there is nothing to be uncertain about now, and she welcomes the passion as it consumes her. She knows exactly what she wants, what she needs, knows it is this man who can give it to her. Hungry and impatient to have all of him, she pulls him to her bed and climbs astride him.

The need that drives her is not simply a desire for the pleasure his touch will bring, but something more primal and more basic. She aches to be possessed: to be filled, to be claimed, to be overcome. She wants to feel his cock stretching her walls, pressing her open until she feels like she’ll be split in two. She wants the satisfaction of his seed spilling into her, seeping into her womb, and there is something in her that very much hopes he will plant a child in her this day.

She does not hesitate to make demands, to reach out and claim for herself what she wants. But her heart thrills when he wrests control from her, tumbling her onto her back and pinning her under him. His hands grasp her hips with bruising force as he drives into her, ungently demanding her complete surrender to his dominance and his masculinity. She gives it wholeheartedly; to be taken like this is what she truly craves, and she revels in the force with which he pounds into her, every thrust driving her closer to the edge.

***

The morning after Ramoth’s second mating flight is infinitely different than the first such time. Most importantly, for all that the responsibilities of Weyr and Weyrleaders have grown considerably more complex, there are no imminent crises on their doorstep this morning.

The first and most immediately apparent difference, however, is that when F’lar wakes, Lessa is still nestled close against him, her slight form warm and soft in his arms.

She fits so perfectly into the curve of his body, with her back pressed up against his chest and her legs tangled with his, and he revels in how comfortable and how wonderfully natural she feels there.

That feeling is made all the sweeter by the knowledge that she’d lain just as comfortably in his arms a day ago, and no doubt will again tonight. Dragonlust had certainly amplified their passion for one another, quite delightfully so, but it had not  _ caused _ her response to him. 

They’ve come a long way in the past half-Turn. He loves her; he knows that now. He’d fought the realization, believing such attachment to be more distraction and vulnerability than he could afford. That had all changed, the day she disappeared  _ between _ times, with the utter despair that had overtaken him when he’d thought her lost. And then to find that she was safe, that in daring what he had not had the courage to risk she’d brought their salvation beyond all hope.... For all that he’d tried not to let her into his heart, he could no longer avoid acknowledging that she was already there. And if she is his weakness, she is his strength as well.

He thinks she feels it too. She hasn’t said the words yet - he’d only very recently ventured to voice them himself - but he can read it in the loyalty and the candidness she honors him with. When he first met her, and for a long time afterwards, she’d been like a wild thing: defensive, skittish, and trusting no one, her true thoughts and feelings maddeningly opaque. Now she trusts him with her vulnerability, and she comes alive in his arms. And for that, he is more grateful than he has the words to express.


	2. Part II: Revelation

The weeks after Lessa’s return with the five Oldtime Weyrs are a blur of activity. Benden’s dragonriders find they have a lot to learn from their new colleagues, rediscovering both threadfighting techniques and general dragonlore that have been forgotten over 400 Turns of no Thread and greatly reduced numbers. At the same time, they have much to do to help the Oldtimers adjust to modern life and to integrate the transferred riders they have been lent to supplement their numbers into Benden’s wings. And when both Ramoth and Prideth rise within the same sevenday, while it’s the best of omens for the Weyr, there’s no denying it contributes to the general chaos.

By the time a month has passed, Lessa finds herself struggling to keep up more and more. She tries not to let it show, to push herself harder to make up for it, but a fatigue that she can’t seem to shake has settled over her.

And then one day she just can’t push herself any more. It’s barely past supper, but she is all but asleep on her feet, unable to focus on the business they are discussing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, covering a yawn. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

F’lar pulls her to him in an instant, looking down at her with concerned eyes. “Are you all right?”

Gratefully she lets him enfold her in his arms, sagging against the support of his solid body. “I don’t know,” she murmurs against his chest, frustrated. “I’m just so tired all the time. It’s been getting worse for weeks.”

“I fear I’ve asked too much of you,” he says ruefully.

She shakes her head violently, denying that notion. “I know you’ve worked every bit as hard, and you haven’t slowed down in the least.”

F’lar dismisses that as irrelevant.

“But....” Her protest dies, half-formed, as he gathers her up, lifting her easily. She wraps her arms around his neck, leaning into the security of his embrace, and he carries her into the sleeping room.

He lays her down gently on the bed, and perches on the edge beside her, running a hand over her hair. “You said this has been happening for several sevendays?”

She nods in confirmation.

He frowns. “I wish you’d said something sooner.”

“I didn’t want to trouble you.” She sighs heavily. “I should be easing your burdens, and now I’m only adding to them.”

He leans down to meet her eyes, regarding her intently. “Lessa,  _ no _ . You are not, and never will be, a burden to me. I only want you to be well.”

“I’m only fatigued, not ill,” she snaps.

“For that long? There’s no ‘only’ about it,” F’lar returns sternly. “Have you been feeling like this since you came back from the Oldtime?”

“Shortly after, I think,” Lessa confirms.

“I wonder...,” he murmurs, half to himself. Recalling her inexplicable fainting spell the day she’d gone back to the South with F’nor, a sinking suspicion is building that this may be some lingering after effect of her long trip  _ between _ times. If that should be the case, who knows how long or how severely it will affect her? They still know so little about the consequences of timing. “If this continues, I want you to talk to Manora.”

“I don’t think that’s-”

“Promise me, Lessa.” The fear gripping his heart makes him unyielding. “I won’t have you risking yourself.”

She rolls her eyes, but accedes. “Very well, if you insist.”

He softens, then, and bends to kiss her lips. “Thank you for indulging me. Get some rest, love.”

He stays there, watching her and lightly stroking her dark hair until he is confident she’s soundly asleep.

***

Another sevenday passes and she is still enervated, so she finally gives in and seeks Manora’s counsel.

It’s easier to do than she’d feared. While she is still irritated by the necessity of the consultation, the Headwoman has a knack for being simultaneously comforting and practical that does much to reassure her. (As Lessa doubts her own manner has ever been soothing to anyone, it’s a talent she suspects she will always be somewhat in awe of.) She explains the lassitude that has plagued her recently, and mentions F’lar’s dramatic theory not so much to give it due consideration as to vent her frustration with her mate’s catastrophizing.

The Headwoman looks thoughtful, and almost amused. She smiles gently. “I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question, but there are several more mundane explanations I’d prefer to rule out first.”

It takes her a surprisingly few probing questions to get to the heart of the matter. Lessa admits that yes, she’s had several spells of dizziness and lightheadedness, and yes, her breasts have been sore and tender lately. She’s chagrined to recognize that she isn’t rightly sure when she’d last had her monthly courses; it’s not that she’d lost track, but the last time she bled had been early and light, gone in less than two days without ever developing into the expected flow, and she isn’t certain if that even counts.

It’s easy enough by that point to guess where this line of questioning is leading, but she still can’t quite believe it until Manora actually says the words.

Reality seems to shift around her. She sits down heavily, her head spinning.

_ A child. _ It’s not as if the prospect has never crossed her mind before. In Turns past, she’d often fantasized of bearing a son of her Blood to inherit Ruatha; even after she renounced her birthright to Impress Ramoth, that dream had been slow in dying. And recently, she’s found thoughts of the child she might someday have on her mind frequently enough that she’d been vaguely, unaccountably disappointed the last time she found her smallclothes spotted with blood.

All the same, having entertained the idea in idle fantasy has in no way left her sufficiently prepared to engage with it as an imminent reality. She’s not sure she’s equal to the challenge, or even deserving of the opportunity. Lessa is sharp-tongued and sharp-tempered, accustomed to viewing life as a battle; she’s honestly a little astounded that her body is even capable of creating life.

Hands clasping hers, gentle but firm, draw her from her reverie, and she looks up into Manora’s kind, concerned eyes and remembers she is not alone.

_ You will never be alone _ , Ramoth interjects, and the love in that thought is like a pulse of warmth.

Somewhat steadied, she offers the older woman a hesitant but genuine smile.

“You’re pleased?”

Lessa considers. She’s terrified, too, but - yes, on the whole she thinks she is. She nods.

“Then let me be the first to congratulate you. And … if you need anything at all, know you can come to me,” Manora says, and Lessa recognizes she is speaking not as Benden’s Headwoman, but simply one woman to another.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lessa says with real gratitude. This is what she appreciates about Manora; an excess of solicitousness would only be irritating to her, but the older woman’s unobtrusive offer of support is a comfort more welcome than she can say.

***

It’s not until they’re preparing for bed that night that she has the opportunity to mention the subject to F’lar.

“I talked to Manora today,” she says conversationally. “About the fatigue.”

“Yes?” Instantly he is on alert.

“It’s entirely your fault,” she says for the satisfaction of seeing his stunned expression. It’s petty and she knows it, but she so rarely has the opportunity to pierce his composure. Besides, she is weary already of his fussing over her, and she suspects it will only get worse once she manages to break the news; she might as well derive some entertainment from the situation while she can.

“Whatever do you mean by that?” he finally manages to say.

Lessa draws in a deep breath. Better to say it plainly and have done with it. “It’s most likely I’m with child.”

For a moment he just stares at her, with an expression of startlement that swiftly gives way to incredulous amazement.

“Oh,  _ Lessa _ . Oh, my love….” He pulls her close against him, cradles her to him as if she’s something precious.

(F’lar has been different since her return - softer, and so much more demonstrative. She’d slowly fallen in love with a stern, reserved man, who showed his caring by treating her as an equal partner and affection through small gestures. This new, openly affectionate version of her mate is certainly not unwelcome, but the change takes some getting used to.)

Neither of them are quite sure what to say after that, and her worries begin to multiply again in the silent space. She pulls free of his arms, suddenly claustrophobic.

She takes another steadying breath, lets it out slowly. Vulnerability still does not in any way come easily to her, but if she cannot share her fears with him then who? “I don’t know what to do,” she half-whispers. She tugs loose the tie securing her plait and begins combing out the strands with her fingers, just to have something to do.

“What do you want to do?”

The trouble is, she’s not sure it makes a difference what she wants. The timing could hardly be worse. She has responsibilities as Weyrwoman that will be impacted - that are already being impacted. Can she even afford to be pregnant now?

(It’s irrational and impractical and yet, she wants it all the same.)

“How can it matter what I want?” she muses bitterly. “There’s so much to be done right now. The Weyr needs me.”

“Our child needs you. The Weyr can manage. What do you want?”

“But….”

“Lessa.” His stern tone brings her up sharply. “Love, you’re allowed to want things.”

“You’re one to talk,” she retorts scornfully. “You’d deny yourself until the end of time if it was in service of your goals. When have you ever wanted something for its own sake?”

“I wanted you,” he says.

She scoffs. “You wanted Benden’s Weyrwoman.”

He shakes his head in a sharp denial. “I needed the Weyrwoman. I  _ wanted _ you.”

He’d done an awful job of showing it, if that were truly the case - but the time for recriminations on that count is long since past, and she chooses not to press the point.

He is regarding her intently, amber eyes bright with inner fire. “In any case, in this moment I’m an entirely selfish man, because I don’t care a whit for the practicalities.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He tugs at his hair, considering how to explain. “You’re not the first woman to have borne my child.”

Lessa nods sourly, wondering how this is relevant. She’d be a fool not to recognize that he’d had his share of lovers before her, but she doesn’t like to be reminded of that fact.

“And no doubt there have been those who’ve chosen not to. I never had much interest in the matter one way or the other,” he continues.

“So?”

F’lar places a hand on her chin and tilts it up, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Lessa, you are the only woman I’ve ever loved. I care now, because I care about  _ you _ . And I desperately want to meet our child.”

She nearly asks when he became such a romantic fool, unaccustomed to such statements of unabashed emotion. She bites back the sharp words, knowing them to be unkind and unnecessary; there is only raw honesty in his expression, and underneath her discomfort she is more touched than she likes to acknowledge. “I do too,” she finally admits. “Want to meet them, that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Yuletide, and thanks for your wonderful prompts. I am also always a proponent of MOAR CAKE when it comes to F'lar and Lessa, and the immediate post-Dragonflight time period is endlessly fascinating to me.


End file.
